


i will wait for you there with these cindered bones (so follow me, follow me down)

by queerwix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:12:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerwix/pseuds/queerwix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don't know where this came from.. I was listening to "Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree" by James Vincent McMorrow, and this happened.</p>
    </blockquote>





	i will wait for you there with these cindered bones (so follow me, follow me down)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from.. I was listening to "Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree" by James Vincent McMorrow, and this happened.

He was sitting beneath a big old tree; a majestic _Quercus rubra_ , its crown full and wide, wiry branches covered in intricate leaves, painted gold in the dying sunlight. The ground he sat upon was grass, an emerald slope leading down to a shore where waves lazily collided with grey rock formations. The sea glittered, silver and purple and blue. The sky stretched into eternity, the sun hanging low on the horizon; it was late but time didn’t matter here, and soon night would fall and the darkness would consume him once again. Faint stars speckled the bruised sky, shimmering and singing of guidance and hope, telling their stories to anyone willing to listen. But he would not listen; he who was sitting so still, statuesque, unmoving in the eventide. A man who had lost everything but who had kept going, though, now, the strings of hope were wearing thin and soon there wouldn’t be anything left to hold onto. This was a man who watched a sunset but failed to see the beauty of it.

He had been waiting for far too long.

Had you looked closer, you would have seen the sorrow in his dark blue eyes, eyes that spoke chapters and volumes, eyes that spoke of wounds and war and loss, but also of brighter days, days of exhilaration and chases and battlefields and _love_ , though those days had long since been buried in the ground, six feet under with the ghost of an impossible body; pale skin stretched over even paler bones, dark curls, and bright grey eyes. There had been nothing tangible to bury, only ashes and charred memories.

Though buried, they had never been forgotten. Every so often, he would carefully unearth and hold the memories of his grey-eyed lover in his hands; the sweet sound of a violin, the feel of sharp cheekbones under a calloused thumb, a pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips, soft words whispered into the night, and the thrill of running down midnight streets with a gun pressing against the small of his back, following the only man he’d ever truly loved. And sometimes, _sometimes_ , he’d remember the taste of those scarlet mouth, the depth of the clouded eyes, the sounds his lover had made in the throes of lust. But most often, he would remember the last moments of life that they’d shared together, before mind and heart were ripped apart, before the moment when a whole became two halves again. He’d remember the burning scent of chlorine, explosives weighing him down, the shrill voice of a psychopath (his laughter still echoing in his mind), tiny red dots trained upon their most vital organs, two nods, and _the look in his eyes_ —moments that stretched on forever but never became anything more. He couldn’t remember what had happened next, and it haunted him; he’d run it over and over again in his mind, each time trying out different variables, but never coming to a conclusion. He was scared he might never know, but he thought he understood now.

He never had nightmares anymore, but he never dreamed, either.

He had remained. The cold didn’t phase him, nor did warmth. His straw-coloured hair now peppered with grey (gold and silver in the light), wrinkles cutting deep into his face, body grown thin and gaunt over the past years, fading scars trailing across his skin. The only sound soaring through the air was a gentle buzzing in the distance, that of honey bees and a garden teeming with life. A garden planted for _him_.

A single leaf floated through the air and landed on the ground next to him. The day had finally come.

The sound of footsteps arose into the pleasant stillness that lay over the world, steps silenced by the soft earth upon which they walked. A tall shadow materialized and came to a stop underneath the tree, a small distance away from the still, hunched figure. Neither man moved for a long time, until the tall one took another step and sunk to his knees, a hand reaching out to clasp the other man’s shoulder.

“John,” he breathed into the quiet.

The hunched figure, man, _John_ , stirred somewhat, almost imperceptibly, and a smile spread slowly across his aged features, bringing some youth back to his face. He turned his head and their eyes met briefly before the tall man averted his gaze to the ground.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting for so long,” he continued. “I truly am sorry.”

“You came for me,” John whispered, voice rough with disuse. “You followed me.”

The tall man peered up at him, watched as John’s blue eyes filled with tears, the first tears he had shed since that day, since he had lost his other half, since they had _both_ lost their other half, and he moved his fingertips to John’s cheek, gently wiping them away. “I promised you, John.”

“Sherlock—”

“I promised that I would follow you,” The tall man— _Sherlock_ —cradled John’s face in his hands. “But you went somewhere I couldn’t, not for a long time, not before I had a chance to sort everything out. But it’s all over now. You’ve been so brave, John. I’m here, and I’m _yours_. Nothing will ever come between us again.”

“No,” John said. “This place is ours and ours alone.”

John smiled as he lifted a hand to Sherlock’s face, fingers tracing new lines and reacquainting themselves with once-familiar skin. He ran his fingertips along Sherlock’s jaw, touched them to the curve of his lips and leaned in; close enough to breathe the same air, foreheads touching, and his fingers continued across sharp cheekbones before moving into an ocean of dark curls sprinkled with grey, savouring the feel, before coming to a rest at his pale neck, thumb against a missing pulse. Finally, _finally_ , their lips brushed, ever so gently, before mouths fell open and tongues touched and twisted, the taste of saline and tea and _Sherlock_ and _John_ all joined together; they melted into one another, arms twining around their bodies like vines, fingers grasping and clutching, legs tangling as they fell to the ground, moulded to one another, and then they were both sinking, drowning in each other, two halves finally becoming a whole again, after all these years.

Above them, dusk turned into night.

They had forever now.


End file.
